


He Was A Friend Of Mine

by Storiesfromthebluebox



Series: Life After Scumbag [1]
Category: The Young Ones
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Requited Love, Reunions, Romance, doctor!Vyvyan, the young ones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storiesfromthebluebox/pseuds/Storiesfromthebluebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick/Vyvyan future fic. It is the year 1995. Rick and Vyvyan have both moved on with their lives. But when Rick goes to see the doctor one day, he is in for a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was A Friend Of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea this morning and I wrote it over the span over the whole day. So it's a bit hasty, but I hope it's any good. Inspired by this drawing:  
> http://madebytoast.tumblr.com/post/82946848409/sketchbook-stuff-i-dont-know-why-i-thought-this  
> And a solo by Mark Knopfler.
> 
> It may be a bit touchy-feely for Rick and Vyv, but since this is Rick and Vyv in their early thirties, I think it's okay to make it a bit softer than I usually would.

Rick pushed open the heavy glass door, facing a waiting room of roughly six people. He'd never liked waiting rooms, much less the people in them. It was tempting to just walk away and go home, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t strictly necessary: he’d been having pain in his middle finger for a week now and well, he didn’t want to wait for it to fall off. He wiped off his sweaty fingers to his pants as he sat down. 

From the corner of his eye, he observed the other people in the waiting room. A teenage boy was listening to a discman. He wrinkled his nose at that disapprovingly. These young people nowadays didn’t know what real music was. They probably didn’t even know Cliff Richard. Gramophones, cassette players, those were the days. The times when poetry and Cliff Richard still ruled the day. The days of true revolution. Back when he actually thought he could _get_ somewhere in this life. Become the poetic hero of the generation, live in a big house with an army of women as the people danced on the streets singing songs about the Peoples Poet. Yes, those were the days, weren’t they? 

He sometimes wondered what would his younger self say if he'd see him like this. Probably something like: 'get off your bottom and do something with your life, you fat old bastard'. Yeah, that would probably be it. His younger self would get a ruddy heart attack if he'd hear he worked at a publishing company now. Well, ‘working’... he made coffee and copied a lot of paper. Paper used to mean something to him. Now it was just work. He hadn't even written a poem in years. 

“Mister Pratt? Doctor Basterd is here to see you now”, a woman called. 

He looked up. Caught up in his musings, he hadn't even noticed the other people had already left. He stood up, following the woman through the doors. When he entered the room, he couldn't help but observe that it looked a bit funny. There was a skeleton, but it wasn't a neat, straight skeleton like you'd expect in a doctor's office. It was stuffed into the closet messily, looking like it had taken a few beatings. Various other strange objects were displayed in the closet: an empty hamster cage, some punk records, a hammer... Studying the rather interesting collection of stuff, he took off his coat and dropped it on the chair.

“Afternoon, Sir”, said a familiar voice.

He turned. It took him a few seconds to realize who was standing in front of him. Everything about him was so familiar, yet so strange. He'd lost the nose-ring and the studs, and his hair was lying flat on the top his head, although he obviously hadn't gone to the trouble of combing it. His face was the only thing that hadn't changed. Well, except for the glasses. And the fact that he looked slightly more manly, his jawline more distinct than he remembered. Because although it had been eleven years, his memory of him was picture clear. How could he forget? The last time he’d seen him had been quite memorable. It was the day they had closed the door on that bloody house.

_“Well, there’s one good thing about all of this”, Vyvyan said._

_“Weally? Like what?”_

_“I’ll never have to put up with you bastards again”._

He’d tossed the keys in the bushes, wished them the best, and had just left. He’d walked away, leaving Rick confused. He’d told himself that of course Vyvyan would come back. He couldn’t stay away forever, could he? They were friends. Yes, they were often on the verge of murdering each other, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d been sure Vyvyan would come crawling back any day.

He hadn’t.

Rick had tried to like his new job as a sociologist for a market research office. He really had. But adult life wasn't all like he’d expected. He’d expected to be glad to be rid of his tiresome housemates. That he would be better off alone. What he hadn't expected was that after a few weeks, he'd have named his tea kettle Neil, his toaster Mike and his vacuum cleaner Vyvyan. He'd talk to them sometimes, in his weaker moments. For a while, that had been his life. Going to work in the morning, coming home to furniture in the evenings. Then one morning, he’d looked in the mirror, and asked himself what he was doing with his life. What had happened to his morals? What was left of the noble anarchist he once was? He’d instantly called his job to tell them he quit. 

“I DON’T NEED YOU FASCIST PIGS TO PAY ME, YOU BASTARDS! I’M A FWEE MAN, YOU HEAR ME”.

“…”

“Yes, I’ll come get my last paycheck tomowow. Right. See you then”.

And he’d hung up. He didn’t need a job, he told himself. Jobs were for fascists, anyway. He’d reasoned that even if he wasn't a bachelor boy anymore, he could still reject society. He would do this by simply not participating in it. So for the following three months or so, he’d barely left the house: only for food and toilet paper. After a while though, it had occurred to him that it was quite boring to reject society. So he’d gone to an employment agency. They’d given him the first easy job they could find.

After a year or so, he didn’t really think about Vyvyan anymore. Only sometimes, when he was talking with his colleagues, and he remembered a funny anecdote that involved him.

_“This friend of mine.... Well, he was. We don’t talk anymore, you see. I don’t even know what he’s doing these days, but anyway...”._

And now he was standing here in front of him.

“Vyv… Vyvyan..?” He just stared. “What happened to your hair?”

Really? After eleven years, that was the first thing he could think of saying? He cursed at himself silently.

“Never mind mine, what happened to yours?”

Thoughtlessly, he slid his fingers through his hair. The pigtails had long gone, of course, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he went to a hairdresser.

“Oh it just… grew a bit… I haven’t really.. cut it in a while… never mind that, you’re a doctor?”

His old friend grinned. “Yeah! Who’d have thought, eh?”

“But I don’t understand! You, of all people! No offense, Vyvyan, but I always thought you were the one to end up in the gutter”.

“Well, here I am. So, sit down, you bastard, and tell me what’s wrong”.  


He smiled. It didn’t sound angry like he used to when insulting him in the old days. He was kidding. It hit him that Vyvyan had grown up. He had _actually grown up_. He didn’t think of Vyvyan much these days, but when he did, it had always been as the nasty little punk he was – correction: had been. Not as the mature-looking, rather handsome man that was standing in front of him now.

“Right”. He sat down in the doctor’s chair. This was very strange. “Well I have a bit of a pain in my finger, actually”.

Vyvyan sat down next to him. “Which one?”

Rick held up his left hand. “My middle finger”.

Without asking, Vyvyan took hold of his finger and twisted it a bit until it made a snapping sound. “Sounds fine to me”. 

Annoyed, he pulled it back. “Careful with that! I might have cancer, you know”.

“You’re still a bloody girl, aren't you? But all right, I’ll examine it for you if it makes you feel any better”.

He took hold of his hand again. One by one, he started moving his fingers, but softer this time.

“Does this hurt?” he asked when he tried his thumb.

“No”.

“This?” He moved onto his index finger.

“No”.

“How about this?”

“ARGH! YES!”

They’d been reunited for maybe ten minutes, and he already wanted to wipe that grin off his face. 

“Sorry mate”, Vyvyan said, still grinning, and he let go of his hand. “You’ve got a sprain. I’ll give you a bandage, wear that for a week or so and you should be fine. Make sure not to put too much pressure on it”.  
He rummaged through the drawers and pulled out some bandage. Then he sat down next to him and started to put the bandage on his hands. Well, this certainly was a scenario he’d never imagined. Vyvyan actually helping him to _recover_ from injuries instead of being the one inflicting them on him. 

He studied his ex-housemate’s face while he was carefully wrapping his hand. He felt like he should say something to him, but he didn’t know what.  
_You know, I never told you this, but I used to fancy you when we were younger?_ Ridiculous.  
Their gazes locked in a few awkward seconds, and he tried to find something in the other man's eyes. Anything. That he was sorry about leaving him like that. That he wished he’d phoned him some time. Vyvyan’s expression, however, was hard to read. Quickly, he pulled back his hand.

“Right, that’ll be 50 quid”, Vyvyan said, wrapping his arms triumphantly. “Only joking!” he added defensively when he saw Rick’s face. 

“Well, your sense of humour hasn't improved much then, has it?”, Rick said, getting up from his chair. He froze, realizing what he'd just said. He hadn’t snapped at someone like that for years. He barely even talked to people anymore, let alone snap at them. It felt strange. But kind of good, actually. He had missed this. 

“Right. I’ll be on my way then”. He grabbed his coat.

“Okidokey mate”. He sounded so much like the old Vyvyan there it was almost as if he’d been zapped back into time for a second.

Suddenly eager to leave, he hurried to the door, but stopped right before he left.

“You know, in case you ever…. Want to chat or something… here’s my card”. He left it on the table. It read: RICK THE PEOPLE’S POET. FOR ALL YOUR POETRY - and the number right underneath it, in a scratchy handwriting.  


“Goodbye, Vyvyan”, he said, and before his old friend had a chance to answer, he’d already fled the room. He walked through the waiting room, the glass doors, and onto the streets. Then through the parking lot, past his car, down some street, until he found a bench where he could sit in peace. There, he allowed himself to cry. He just let the tears flow silently, while his body trembled slightly. Seeing Vyvyan had unleashed a lot of old emotions he hadn't known were still there. He cried until he had no more tears. Then he just sat there, until he finally told himself to suck it up. Yes, he had once been in love with Vyvyan. It obviously hadn't been mutual. So that was that. It was no use to mourn the past. The past was the past and it would never come back. He knew Vyvyan wouldn't call. It had been silly to leave that card. 

With determination, he wiped his face with his sleeve, stood up and made his way back to his car. At home, in his small apartment, he warmed some left-over spaghetti, and crawled on the couch with a bottle of wine. He drank all of it and fell asleep watching Pride & Prejuidice. Around 8 in the morning he woke up from his phone zooming. He grabbed it from the table and his heart jumped when he saw there was a text. It was written at 2:00 AM.

‘WILL YOU HAVE A DRINK WITH ME. VYVYAN’

No question mark, all capitals. He read it about ten times. Then he just burst out giggling, not sure if it was because of the immense relief he felt or because of the bluntness of the text. They didn’t have mobile phones when they still lived together, but it seemed like just Vyvyan to be absolutely ignorant about technology. 

He texted back. 

‘Broke your capital button, didn’t you? What time and where? Rick’

The reply came almost immediately. 

‘8:30. THE KEBAB AND CALCULATOR. MY TREAT’

The Kebab and Calculator… that was the pub his mum worked once. Did that still exist?

‘You’re really rubbish at texting, you know that Vyvyan? I’ll see you there’

‘SHUT UP, YOU BASTARD. SEE YOU THERE’

He’d never been so happy to be called a bastard by Vyvyan. He tossed aside his phone and made a quick happy dance. Oh God, what should he wear? He pondered about this question for the rest of the day, plundering his wardrobe in a desperate search for a decent shirt in the messy pile of clothes.

That night around said time, they met at the front of The Kebab and Calculator. It hadn’t been hard to find it. Not much had changed at all, except the sign had been replaced. Vyvyan was wearing a leather jacket and dark trousers. It was weird seeing him without his usual outfit, but it suited him. Rick had chosen jeans and a buttoned shirt, with his old brown coat that he kept all those years. It had been a few sizes too big for him when he was 22, so it suited him just fine now. He'd even made an effort to comb his hair. Vyvyan greeted him with a wide grin.

“Look who’s here! My old mate Rick! Come here, you bastard.” And he wrapped an arm around him. He remembered how the last time they were here and Vyvyan had to introduce his friends to his mum, he’d refused to call him his friend. He’d never expected anything to change back then. Yet here they were. All grown up.

They went inside and Vyvyan ordered two beers.

“You do drink now, do you?” he asked wearily.

Rick thought about the bottle of wine he’d swigged away. 

“Yes, yes I do”.

And they talked. It was a bit uncomfortable in the beginning, (where to start?) but the beer made it easier. Vyvyan had an insatiable curiousity about him. He wanted to know here he worked, where he lived, if he had a girlfriend… he seemed particularly interested about that last part. 

Then it was Rick’s turn to ask the questions. As it turned out Vyvyan had had a few relationships before, none of them very serious. He felt relieved when he heard that. It felt like their relationship status was something they had to move out of the way, and once they both confirmed they were single, they could truly loosen up. They talked a lot. He’d never known Vyvyan could be so talkative. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd talked that much himself. Vyvyan was right in the middle of a story about how he’d been piss drunk on the toilet of his ex-girlfriend’s in-laws when the bartender told them it was closing time. Neither of them felt like going.

On the sidewalk outside the pub, Vyvyan smoked a cigarette and nodded a cab. Rick watched the cigarette anxiously. He knew that when he’d have smoked it up, he would leave again. He would get in that cab and he wouldn’t know when he’d see him again. That knowledge felt like someone had dropped a stone on his stomach. Then, in one swift move, Vyvyan threw the cigarette on the floor, turned to him, grabbed him by his sleeves and kissed him. Rick only froze in surprise for a minimum of a second, but returned the kiss almost immediately. It was completely insane and overwhelming: the lightness in his head caused by the alcohol, the taste of it and Vyvyan, so much Vyvyan. Despite all their talking, they hadn’t said a word on all the things that had happened, or rather, not happened between them. But they didn’t need to. Vyvyan had always been more physical when it came to expressing himself. The way he kissed him said _I’m sorry. I never should have let you go._ And Rick said _It’s all right. I forgive you._ But most of all, he felt like his slightly fatter, older body was young again. In that moment, he felt more himself than he ever did. 

“Hey Rick”, Vyvyan slurred, when they were done. “Here’s a bit of doctor’s advice: come over for dinner at my house tomorrow. I need to check if you don’t get cancer in your finger, you know”. He punched him on the shoulder, and turned away, towards the cab.

“Wait, Vyvyan! I don't even know where you live!”

“I’ll text ya!” He could almost hear the grin in his voice.

And for the second time in his life, Rick watched him walk away from him. But this time, it wasn’t for good. He would see him tomorrow. And the day after that. And probably the day after that. And many days to come. He put his hands in the pockets of his old coat and smiled. For now, the future couldn’t look brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> The Kebab and Calculator is a fictional pub featuring in the episode 'Boring' of The Young Ones.
> 
> The lovely red-river-prince also made a drawing based on this fic.  
> http://red-river-prince.tumblr.com/post/84214163818/sketchy-sketch-of-vyvyan-based-on-this-awesome


End file.
